Confession
by katydidit
Summary: You could run away, hide in some small village away from his ire and wrath and raise your child in secret. Until he sent his armies after you for kidnapping his child. Your head would be on a pike somewhere, you are sure of it.


"My lord." Your voice echoes coldly in the silence of the room. Your king is sitting in his throne, head resting forlornly in his hands. In another, more private, room, you might have gone to him—knelt before him and run trembling fingers through his hair as you murmured into his ear, but there are guards around you both now, and your sense of decorum prevents that.

He has been distant lately. Not cold, and never neglectful of your most basic needs, but not nearly as attentive as he had been while courting you. You knew when this whole thing began that he was the kind of man who preferred the chase, that giving in to your own desires and falling into his bed would put a swift end to the lovely whirlwind of excitement that the king's attentions had thrown you into, but you relented anyway, finally telling yourself that one night with him would be worth the heartbreak that would inevitably follow. Now you're not so certain.

Your mother would have kept you from making this mistake, you tell yourself, if only she had been around. But you are alone in the world now except for a greedy father and a foolish brother—and one small, rapidly-growing addition. Your stomach clenches, and you press your hands against your abdomen. There was no blood this month, nor last month, and the telltale flutters you feel sometimes make you certain that you are no longer alone.

"Leave us." Your king spits the words at his guards, and though your eyes are fixed steadily upon the floor in front of you, you can feel them exchange uneasy glances—at each other, at you—before they obey the command. You want to follow them. You could run away, hide in some small village away from his ire and wrath and raise your child in secret. Until he sent his armies after you for kidnapping his child. Your head would be on a pike somewhere, you are sure of it.

Realistically, there is very little reason for you to feel so frightened. During your times together—much more time than you would have expected, and each more wonderful than the last—your king was kind, gentle. His cool hands traced along your skin as though you were something precious. He was a man who demanded submission from his lovers, of course, but in return he offered great pleasure, and security. You were happy to kneel before him each and every time. He looked at you with a kind of excitement that seemed to reach beyond physical arousal: it was as though you truly interested him, amused him even. But, of course, even the most wonderful dreams come to an end at some point, and now you find yourself standing before him fighting for breath.

"You are frightened." It is a statement. He does not even bother to lift his head to look at you. "I can smell it pouring from you like the rain. Am I so terrifying a monster that even my lover must fear me?"

"No, my king. Never, sir." It is not him you fear, not implicitly. It is the unknown. You have no way of knowing how he will react. You try to bring your heart rate back under control, but it is futile. "Please, forgive me. I do not think you a monster. You know that." Any other woman in your place would likely be severely punished for such insolence, but your position grants you a certain immunity.

"Then come to me. Kneel here, and touch me. My mind is heavy tonight, dear heart. Indeed, it has been heavy for quite some time now."

"I am sorry, my lord." You keep your voice soft and will your feet to carry you closer. When you are mere steps away from his throne, you sink to your knees and crawl the rest of the distance to him. Your hands, warm despite the chill air of the room, rest on your king's knees for only moments before he takes them in his hands and presses them to his lips.

"Your heart is racing, my love. Has someone hurt you? Tell me who and I will make sure they are thoroughly punished." His eyes finally meet yours, still troubled but now burning with anger and possessiveness. You look away and shake your head, cursing your traitorous body, your foolish mind. You should not have come here. Even now, you wish you could scrabble away from your king, hiding yourself from his sight. If he has shown you anything in the last few weeks, it is that you are less than worthy of his time.

"No one has done anything to me, my king." Your voice is weak, a whisper nearly swallowed up by the cavernous walls.

"Then what?" He is growing agitated, rising to tower above you. You rise up on your knees as well, hands clasped behind your back, head lowered. The stone tiles are blurring with the tears that fill your eyes. It is ridiculous, childish, to be so frightened of your secret and of your lover, but he is, above all else, a king. When a king is displeased, people get hurt. You're not sure which you fear most: that he will reject both you and your child and exile you to one of those small villages; or that he will take your child from you once it has been born, and relegate you to the position of one of his servants. He would be within his rights to do either of those things, after all: many kings before him had done the same, and worse. A tear splashes onto the tile in front of you, and you cannot stop the undignified sniffle that escapes. Crying like a child in front of your king. You deserve much worse than exile.

He sinks to his knees before you, and the unfamiliarity of such a thing distracts you from your racing heart. One slender finger presses on your chin, lifting your eyes to meet his. He searches your face for answers, but apparently finds none, for his gaze grows even more troubled—almost afraid. "Dear one. Please tell me what is wrong. I do not want to see you like this. How can I make you smile again?" He cups your cheek in his palm, and your eyes flutter shut as you press against his touch.

"My lord, I am with child." You force your eyes open and meet his gaze. "Your child." As though it needs saying. Even if your eyes had strayed to some other lover, it would be suicide to be unfaithful to the king—but that was not what kept you true. The rest of the boys you grew up with in Asgard, they were but boys. Their thoughts were shallow, their aspirations dull and predictable, their desires brutish and often cruel. You remained faithful to your lover because you loved him, deeply and painfully and with all of your weak and wretched heart. Loki was not a man of such emotions—love, hah—certainly not for a plain and common wench like yourself, but you could not fathom ever taking another man into your heart or your bed. It was him or nothing, forever.

He studies you carefully, almost harshly, and in complete mindnumbing silence. You want to look away, to run away, so that you could lock yourself into your chambers and tremble at this new turn your life had taken, but you cannot. His face is stone, eyes flashing like chips of ice in a statue's countenance. You have seen him come undone dozens of times, watched his body writhe and tense with pleasure and release, but you cannot read this expression. You are mumbling something, without truly thinking about it, and it is only after a few moments that you realized you are apologizing to him, over and over again in broken tones. You are begging for his forgiveness.

"Why are you sorry?" There are no endearments this time, just a level voice, and he pulls away from you to rise to his feet and pace the floor. "Tell me. Why are you sorry?"

"Because I am no one, my king. Your child should come from noble blood, not a common whore from the village. I will await your decision, but please, sir, if I might make one plea. One pathetic plea, which of course you are under no obligation to even hear, sir. If you take this child from me, please kill me because—" Your voice cracks, and your face floods with humiliation. "—because my dear king, I do not wish to live without it." Or you.

"Stand up." His voice is odd, thick. You obey quickly, standing unsteadily on legs that threaten to send you sprawling at your king's feet once again. You keep your eyes shut tightly against the torchlight that flickers around the room, against the tears that will not stop coming. You feel him approach you, the touch of his hand through the velvety fabric at your waist. "You are no common whore from the village. Wherever did you hear such a stupid notion? Look at me." Your body obeys even before your mind can give it another thought. "You are mine. You are the chosen lover of Loki, King of Asgard, and you are not no one. You're smarter than that, darling, much smarter." His eyes search yours. The ice is melting and they are returning to their more familiar shade of blue. These are the eyes that hold yours in the middle of the night, while his fingers tease you over the edge. "I would never take a child from its mother, nor a mother from its child. I can be cruel, and it is true that I do not always understand others and their emotions, but to do such a thing is beyond even my capabilities." His voice is rough, ripping through his throat so forcefully that you begin to realize there is much you have yet to learn about your king. "And as for killing you." A mirthless snort. "Treasure of my heart, I would sooner throw myself before a thousand ice giants."

You swallow against the lump in your throat and allow the slightest hint of a smile to quirk the corners of your lips. He mirrors your expression, fisting his hands in your hair as he leans down to press his forehead against yours. "Is that all? Is that what made you so frightened? Your heart was racing as though you feared death. Are you afraid to bear my child?"

"No, my king, of course not!" The relief, the sheer relief and the ludicrous question has you laughing so hard that you must lean against him for support. His arms snake around your back and keep you pressed against his chest as you dissolve into giggles that dry your tears. "I was afraid that you'd be angry, that you'd send me away, that you would take the child from me, my love, but I am not afraid to bear it. I am happy to bear it."

He tightens his arms around you, and your face is pressed against his shoulder. You almost miss his next words, but somehow they travel through all of their obstacles directly to your ears. "Are you afraid to be my queen?"

Your heart stops, but for entirely different reasons. He does not let you go this time, despite the fact that you long to study his face, determine how truthful he is. Loki is the god of lies and mischief, after all. This could be a trick to punish you for your childish fear. Finally, he allows you to pull away, and sinks to his knees before you. "I kneel before you now, here, to ask you to be my queen. Will you consent to be tied to a man so different from everyone else? A man who is unthinking and at times uncaring, but who will always, always hold you dear to his heart? Will you rule me and be ruled by me until our deaths part us?"

He is looking up at you, and something tells you that this is not, in fact, any kind of trick or punishment. There is some earnestness in his eyes, but not so much that would render his words false. Instead, that veil of fear and worry has slipped back into place—that very veil that seemed to have separated you from him for all these weeks. It's hard to breathe. You fall to your knees as well,pressing your lips to his fingers over and over again. There are more tears, but these are not born from panic, but from relief. You are mumbling again, your lips shaping words against your king's fingertips, and this time you know that you are saying "yes". He folds you in his arms again, crushing you with joy, and you've never felt more at home.

"Come to my bed," he murmurs, and his breath is hot against your ear. Delightful shivers race along your spine, and you resist the urge to hide your face from him. "Come to my bed, my love, so that I might make you forget the fear that made your sweet heart race so quickly." He pulls you to your feet and sweeps you from the room. "And do not call yourself a whore again. No one is allowed to speak such words about my queen." He grins, a wicked thing that sparks a slow fire burning in the pit of your belly. "No one but me, that is, and you must not forget that."


End file.
